Chapter 3 – Ivan
Rayko: How’s it going?
Me: My suit is too tight.
Rayko: It’s custom made. Quit whining.
Rayko: Have you signed the contracts?
Me: Tonight is a meet and greet. No contracts yet.
Rayko: Fucking waste of time.
The bright little flower rushed away, pulling her cousin with her.
Intoxicating, that was the word. Something about her struck me, and I couldn’t look away.
Those soft brown eyes set in her smooth, suntanned face made my blood hum.
There was a delicate balance about her, as if the first strong gust of wind would tip her over.
But the more I touched her, the more we came into contact, I realized that was an unfair description.
Behind the shy demeanor, Poppy was strong.
Hardy. Able to grow and thrive—just like her namesake.
I watched the ladies go until they disappeared into the house.
My blood ran hot, coursing through my veins.
Ebasi! She was beautiful.
That was why I went to find her, just to talk to her again.
Only to find someone else was trying to pluck my flower.
My fingers twitched at my side. The slim blade I kept in my jacket pocket howled, begging to be used.
I swept a look over the backyard of Don Mancini’s house.
The shit stain was gone. I shifted my shoulders, rolling out some of the tension, and reached under the breast lapel of my suit.
The hard steel was reassuring. Soon, I promised myself, soon I would hunt that waiter down and introduce him to the wicked-sharp weapon.
It wasn’t the risk of spilling blood on the don’s property that stayed my hand.
No, it was almost time to eat. And hunting the waiter down to play would take a long time to satisfy the bubbling rage in my chest. I wasn’t missing dinner—and a chance to spend time near the flower—and I sure as hell wasn’t letting the waiter’s end be a fast one.
I made my way back to the gathering. Commissioner Dallas was deep in conversation with a commercial developer.
They were the two men I’d come here to shmooze.
The commissioner belched a laugh, chin bobbing at the broken cord sound.
He was a man who looked like he’d been assembled from spare parts.
Button nose, watery eyes that never quite focused on whoever he was talking to, and a suit that strained against his considerable girth.
But appearances aside, Commissioner Dallas controlled the zoning board with an iron fist.
I straightened my tie and approached, catching the tail end of a joke about golf handicaps. The developer—Harrington or Harrison, something with an H—spotted me first, his smile tightening at the corners.
“Ah, Mr. Mladenov,” the commissioner said, turning my way. “We were just discussing the Westside project. Fascinating proposal.”
I nodded, feigning interest. The Westside project was vital to keeping my territory intact. It would keep the district whole, making it harder for the competition to encroach on my turf.
“Yes, fascinating,” I said, trying to make the big English word sound natural.
It didn’t sound too broken. I accepted a fresh drink from a passing server.
The scotch burned pleasantly going down my throat.
The smoky aftertaste spread over my tongue, making my mouth feel as though I licked a scorched barrel.
“I hear you’re the one who owns the real estate available to build on,” the developer mused, assessing gaze sweeping over me. “How is it that we haven’t met before?”
I sipped my drink to buy a moment. “There hasn’t been a good enough offer in the past. But the land along the Skokie Highway is ready for something new.”
“Indeed,” the developer hummed, his smile not reaching the calculating eyes that watched me.
The sense that one wrong word would be a terrible mistake plagued me.
I didn’t play word games, didn’t dance around the truth.
When I wanted something, I took it. A simple, yet effective strategy.
But not the correct one in this world. Tonight, I was stepping out of the rough neighborhoods and into the arena of big, polished corporations.
Ironic because I had more assets, and likely more capital, than most of these men combined. Not that any of it was on paper.
Commissioner Dallas leaned closer, and the scent of bourbon and aftershave wafted over me. “Mr. Mladenov, I have to ask, what’s your background in development? The Westside project requires…experienced hands.”
The question landed like a punch to the gut.
I kept my expression neutral while my mind raced.
These men dealt in permits and environmental impact studies, not the kind of negotiations I was used to.
In my world, a handshake and the implicit threat of consequences sealed deals.
Here, everything required lawyers and paperwork trails that could be scrutinized by federal investigators.
“I’ve been in real estate for fifteen years,” I said, which was technically true if you counted the massage parlors and nightclubs. “Mostly smaller ventures until now.”
The developer—Harrison, I decided—nodded slowly. “And your financing? A project this size requires significant capital backing.”
That probing question required a very careful response. They had friends high on the food chain. Ones who could come sniffing around the books if they caught the ripe stench of green.
“My financing is already secured.” I kept my voice smooth. Practiced. Professional—and totally foreign. “Private investors who prefer discretion.”
Mancini was one of them. I would leave that to his discretion if he chose to reveal the fact or remain anonymous. To them, Mancini was just out host for a group of his acquaintances. What they didn’t know was that he arranged this set-up so we could meet.
Commissioner Dallas’s eyebrows rose slightly. The kind of response that could mean interest or suspicion. It was impossible to tell which. I needed to redirect.
“What matters more than my background is what I bring to the table,” I said, gesturing with my glass. “Fresh perspective. No preconceptions about what can or can’t be done in that area.”
Harrison’s mouth twitched. “Preconceptions often exist for good reason, Mr. Mladenov. Regulations, community concerns—”
“Which is why we need Commissioner Dallas,” I cut in, nodding respectfully to the older man. “My investors and I want to work in a good framework.”
The lie slid easily from my tongue. Apart from Mancini, my “investors” were shell companies, laundering operations that kept my money out of the public records and away from the grubby fingers of the taxmen.
“Well, I, for one, am intrigued. Have the proposal sent to me, and we’ll have a look,” Dallas decided, throwing back the rest of his drink.
Any further opportunity for discussion was cut off as the guests filed into the dining room.
I followed, tuning out the conversation that quickly switched to golf.
A rich man’s game, it diverted the attention from the topic at hand to the laidback afternoons spent on the green.
Dollar for dollar, I belonged to that set, but it would be a cold day in hell when I wasted my time smacking a ball around just to go chase the damn thing to the next hole.
The Italian boss and I shared a look. We silently agreed that went about as well as could be expected. Other than a minor inconvenience in the form of another organization sniffing around the turf, it seemed like we were off to a good start. The don broke contact and led the way into the house.
The dining room took my breath away. Don Mancini had more money than sense—and I respected that.
A massive oak table stretched through the center, polished to such a shine that the crystal chandeliers above reflected in its surface like stars on a midnight lake.
Each place setting featured what looked like actual gold flatware—not plated, but solid—arranged with military precision alongside bone China plates rimmed with cobalt blue and gold filigree.
Fresh-cut roses and orchids cascaded from towering crystal vases, their perfume mixing with the aroma of expensive food waiting to be carried in by an army of servers in crisp, black uniforms. Each server moved with skilled efficiency, appearing and disappearing like ghosts, keeping wine glasses perpetually filled.
If one of their number was missing, they didn’t show any lack of attention.
I brushed my fingers over my breast pocket, feeling the knife’s sheath hidden underneath.
Soon. The waiter couldn’t have gone far. Not that the distance mattered. I would find him. My knife would make him sing.
The guests took their seats around the table, each representing some facet of power in the city. Judges, politicians, old money, new money. The kind of gathering I could never host. No one in their right mind would visit me, let alone step foot in my dingy territory.
That was about to change.
Before I could take my place in the throng, the lady of the house sailed into the room. She rose on the tips of her toes to place a quick kiss on the don’s cheek. Only because I was watching did I see the don’s features soften a fraction.
He loved his wife desperately.
But my attention was quickly stolen when her friend skirted the couple to sit in the empty chair beside Signora Mancini.
Poppy had changed into an ivory dress. The long sleeves cinched at her wrist in tight cuffs, but the flowy material billowed up the length of her arms until it connected with the sheath cut.
It was a tease. Her full curves pressed against the material, reminding me that they were there.
Warmth shot down my body, stirring between my legs.
Servers placed the first course in front of each guest with choreographed precision. A delicate arrangement of seared scallops nestled on beds of microgreens, drizzled with something that smelled faintly of citrus and truffle. I barely noticed the food.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Poppy. The way she tilted her head when she laughed at something Signora Mancini whispered. The elegant curve of her neck. The subtle movement of her throat as she sipped her wine. Each gesture sent a fresh pulse of heat through my body.
This was unexpected. Dangerous, even. I hadn’t come here for a woman. I’d come for business, for territory, for respect.
Yet as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, catching a drop of wine before it could stain the dress, I wished I was closer. That it was my finger that caught the bead of crimson. My mouth watered for a taste.
She lifted her fork, passing the bite of scallop behind her teeth. I stared at her lips, a groan caught in my chest.
Something distracted me to the left. I mumbled a response, not aware of the words I spoke. It was only as I reached for my own fork that I paused. There were…several.
Ebasi, why? Why the hell were there so many?
Yet every other guest seemed to know the proper utensil to use for the dish.
A sharp glance at my neighbor spared me the embarrassment of using the wrong fucking fork.
But the feeling didn’t dissipate. The polished crowd knew how to act during this next scene, and I was left to fumble on stage.
As usual. On paper, I might be qualified to be here, and my ruthlessness carved a path to the top, but I was still the poor boy, born in a mountain hovel on a distant shore.
The rich food seemed sour, almost bitter on my tongue.
I cut a look across the table.
Of course, the perfect flower knew how to behave. And why wouldn’t she? Her story might be a mystery, but it was clear she belonged here, the same as everyone else.
I fisted my fork, feeling the metal weaken and bend under my strength.
I subtly pressed on the fork, forcing it back to its original shape. It wasn't about the utensils or the fancy food. It was about her. About having what I couldn’t—shouldn’t—possess.
Poppy caught my gaze across the table. Her lips curved into a smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared, a private moment between strangers.
My pulse quickened. The conversation around me faded to a dull hum as I imagined crossing the space between us, taking her by the hand, and leading her away from this gathering of vultures in expensive suits.
She belonged to Mancini’s world. Protected. Untouchable. A perfect ornament among his other treasures.
But I had never been good at respecting boundaries or ownership. Everything of value in my life had been taken, not given. My territory. My respect. My power. None of it was handed to me on a silver platter.
Why should she be any different?